


With your sun, soft

by pinehutch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Gift Giving, In the sense that It has been Fixed in this post-canon setting, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Chaucer, Valentine's Day, background wtgfs, the apocalypse was solved and we are not asking questions like 'how'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinehutch/pseuds/pinehutch
Summary: “You know Valentine's Day doesn’t have to be a box of bad chocolate and Tesco’s finest wilting rose bouquet. It can just be you,” Melanie says, and Martin understands she means both of them, him and Jon, and what they mean and are together. “And if that’s absolutely nothing, not even acknowledging the date, whatever, I’m sure that’s fine, too. ‘Sides, not like Jon’s big on romance, is he?”“Um,” says Martin, blushing and tongue-tied in the coffee shop. “I mean — maybe a bit?”***It's the first Valentine's Day after the world came back; Martin doesn't think much of Valentine's, but he wants to make it perfect.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 34
Kudos: 92
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RavenDarkwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenDarkwood/gifts).



> [RavenDarkwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenDarkwood/pseuds/RavenDarkwoodurl) had four wonderful prompts for the TMA 2021 Valentine's Day Exchange. I started writing fic for three of them, and this is the one that ran away on me. Thank you so much for your prompts, which proved to be more imaginative than I could handle; I hope this, which was written in the spirit of a fluffy Valentine's Day, hits the target. 
> 
> While there's no explicit sexual content in this fic, there is a bit of smooching (including of Jon's torso), and one or two scenes which can be read as fade-to-blacks that imply sexual activity. I love that Jon is canonically ace/aspec, and in this fic I headcanon him as sex-interested ace. It's not a topic of discussion or subject of the fic, but I'm writing about an aspec character and I wanted to acknowledge that I wrote this with those things in mind. 
> 
> This is set post-canon and is not canon divergent (at time of writing). The world is as restored as it can be, but there are references to grief, trauma, and loss in the background. People have cried a little tiny bit, either reading or writing this (I'm people, I cried). 
> 
> Other, detailed content warnings in the end-notes of this chapter, because though this is basically romantic, domestic fluff, I still want everyone to feel comfortable.

**8 February 2019**

“So. You and _Jonathan_ ,” Melanie drawls. It’s amazing how she manages to sneer at Jon just a little bit, even when he’s not here. Martin’s used to it, and Mel’s become a great friend, so he tolerates it in small quantities. “Valentine’s plans? Georgie and I are going to a talk on ‘liberation and lycanthropy: transformation, pursuit, and queerness in our time.’ And then there’s a concert afterwards? I can’t remember the name, but local, Florence Welch-y kind of sounds apparently?” 

He breathes a small laugh through his nose at the mention of Valentine’s Day. It’s not really his thing. Never has been, and he says that. “Your thing though — that sounds fun? I guess? I honestly can’t believe you still have the stomach for the ‘paranormal.’” 

The corner of Melanie’s mouth quirks, followed by an exasperated shrugging motion of the same shoulder. “You know it doesn’t _have_ to be awful, right?” 

“What, the lurking horrors of the uncanny? Hard pass on that line of argument, Mel.” 

“No, you — no. Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t have to be awful.” 

Martin _hms_ in response: after all, there’s nothing wrong with being not that into the kind of heteronormativity that’s made up to sell mass market cards and teddy bears to unimaginative adults. 

Melanie snickers. “Christ, I always thought _Jon_ was the snob.” 

“H-hey! I’m not — I’m not a _snob_ , I just—” 

“Uh huh.” 

“ — I just have a couple of things that I’m particular about — “ 

“Right.” 

“ — and just because I like things a little bit off the, the _beaten path_ or whatever, doesn’t make me — oh my _God._ ” 

“Yep,” says Mel. She pops the _p_ at the end of the word like the bubble of Martin’s harmless self-delusion. She’s leaned back in her chair, a hand around her tea. She looks happy, and relaxed, and Martin’s as pleased to have her as a friend and he is to feel the way that Melanie’s teasing doesn’t fill him up with hot, squirming embarrassment and anger as it once would have. 

“Okay, well. So what? So I have some standards. Don’t see what that has to do with Valentine’s Day.” 

“You don’t.” She says it flatly. For someone who has never been a sceptic, Melanie’s terribly sceptical. “Listen, Martin, I get it. I really, really do. And I’m not saying you have to, oh God, jump out of a cake in a cupid costume and start serenading him or anything.” 

Martin can’t help but laugh. “Um, excuse me but I will not be, be _kink-shamed_ by the likes of you.” He laughs even more when Melanie pulls a face that looks like she’s just smelled sour milk.

“I’m not going to respond to that, just so you know." She pauses. “It just — you know it doesn’t have to be a box of bad chocolate and Tesco’s finest wilting rose bouquet. It can just be _you_ ,” and Martin understands she means both of them, him and Jon, and what they mean and are together. “And if that’s absolutely nothing, not even acknowledging the date, whatever, I’m sure that’s fine, too. ‘Sides, not like Jon’s big on romance, is he?” 

Suddenly, Martin’s back in their bedroom on a rainy morning last week, sense-memory overrunning with _Jon_. The backs of his hands resting on their soft, soft sheets, the warmth of Jon’s palms in his own. His beard tickling Martin’s throat, lips brushing beneath his ear, across his jaw, murmuring against his mouth. The vibration passing from his chest to Martin’s. _I’m so lucky to have this. This is everything I wanted. I love you so much. Wonderful man, brilliant, brave man._ Martin had needed to swallow back tears, and then he’d let Jon take his face in his hands and had swallowed down kisses, instead. 

“Um,” says Martin, blushing and tongue-tied in the coffee shop. “I mean — maybe a bit?” 

**8 Feb 2019 (later)**

They had gotten the world back through means that still didn’t make much sense if you tried to look at them head-on. No one could ever explain exactly how much time had passed during the apocalypse, but the trees were still bare and the ground chilled and muddy when a pale sun had returned to the sky. The consensus picked a date in late autumn, and called it good. (The astronomers who could work — the ones who were still called by the stars and did not fear the incomprehensible spaces between them — did, eventually, confirm.) 

Fewer than three months have passed since then. It is so much more than three weeks in Scotland; it feels like much less than the journey from the safehouse, to London, to Oxford, to the present. 

Martin jogs up the stairs to their flat and hopes that it will never be enough time for him to forget the way Jon had said _home sweet home_ on the day they moved in, warm and only a little wry. 

“Jon?” he calls out, when he finds the living room empty but before he sees the sticky note beside the bowl they keep their keys in. _Phone appt with Abigail, done @ 7:00._ Oh, right, Friday evening telecounseling. Wild evenings in the post-post-apocalypse. 

He smiles to himself and heads to the kitchen to make a start on supper. God, they are so unimaginably lucky. 

He’s most of the way through simmering a mushroom ragù when Jon announces himself via two slim arms wrapping around his waist. “Hi. Smells good.” 

Martin never used to be much of a cook, but he’s practicing. “Hm, we’ll see.” He sets down a wooden spoon and turns to face Jon, who looks thoughtful but fairly at ease. “Went well?” 

Jon replies with half a smile and says that it went well enough, and sits himself down at the small breakfast table. “And? How was tea with the prophet?” 

“Jon! Uncool!” 

“Is it? Or — have you considered — that it may be, in fact, deeply ‘cool’? And before you answer, know that I was just talking to my therapist so I am quite sure I know all about appropriate and healthy trauma responses and recovery.” 

“You? Are terrible. For the record. I’m going to poison your supper.” 

“Honestly, I maybe deserve it, for that. Unless - did she call me _Jonathan_? In that voice she gets?” There’s something fascinating in the skillet, Martin supposes, which must be why he’s back to looking directly at it with a barely concealed grin. “She _did_ , didn’t she? So, it’s fair, basically.” 

Martin gives up and starts laughing over the stove. He shouldn’t, but he loves when Jon gets in these bitchy, fey moods. Mel definitely brings them out in him; Martin never had siblings, but he suspects that’s a bit of what it’s like. “Okay,” he says, turning back to his awful, awful boyfriend. “You’re an awful little man, but I love you so I will let this one slide. But also —” 

“I’ll try not to be a prick.” 

“ — don’t be a dick. Yeah, that.

“Anyway, tea was fine. Nice, even. It’s a good little coffee shop, I’m glad they were able to get it open, reopened, whatever. Mel’s doing really great, she and Georgie are still settling back in and not too worried about work or anything yet, but yeah. She’s good.” Jon listens carefully, smiles at the mention of Georgie and Melanie settling in. He’s gotten so _fond_ since things went back, and it makes Martin want to wrap him entirely in kitten videos and stories about wholesome queer orgs building community, or something. “Actually…” 

“Actually..?” prompts Jon. 

“It’s just, I hadn’t given this any thought, but she mentioned that she and Georgie were going to a talk, something very queer werewolves, and then a concert, for Valentine’s Day. A singer, local, kind of Florence-y, she said. And I wasn’t sure if —” 

Jon cuts in. “Oh! That sounds actually perfect for them. I know Melanie and I aren’t always, uh, harmonious” — and Martin raises his eyebrows in a way that communicates exactly what he thinks of Jon’s word choice — “but she does make Georgie very happy.” 

“Very magnanimous of you. Anyway, I was wondering if that’s something you might like to go to, too? I mean, I know it’s not your scene or whatever, musically speaking, but just in general?” Martin’s watching his face very, very carefully. He’s sure he’ll know the microexpression that means _I am desperate to go on this exact or a very similar Valentine’s date, because I care deeply about the holiday_ when he sees it. He has to.

Jon looks a bit taken aback, to be honest. “I mean, no? Not really? We can go if you like, Martin, if you’re a, a fan, I guess, but I wasn’t angling for you to take me. It just sounds nice for them. Is that okay?” He’s looking at Martin with wide, worried eyes, like he’s the one who’s worried about ruining a ridiculous commercial holiday.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, completely fine with me, definitely not my scene, nope!” He relaxes for a minute, comfortable knowing that he can’t disappoint Jon by not being excited about Valentine’s Day if Jon isn’t into it, either. 

Ten minutes later they’re on the sofa, balancing warm, savoury bowls of mushroom ragù and noodles on their laps when Jon leans over and gives him a kiss on the shoulder. “Thank you. For cooking tonight, and for asking if I wanted to go to Georgie and Melanie’s thing. I’d just, it’s a bit of a first, isn’t it? Rather it were just you and me.” 

He’s been practicing in the kitchen, but Martin’s got no idea how the food tastes tonight. The only thing on his mind is _a bit of a first_. 

(He needs to come up with a plan. Quickly.)

**9 Feb 2019**

The next morning is Saturday, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything in terms of who goes where. Turns out you can save a remarkable amount of your take-home pay if you’re functionally living in your office for over a year and not paying rent (and if your eldritch promotion also comes with evil signing authority and a fundamental disconnection from your previous scruples). Between that and the universal income that’s being provided now, neither of them had had a pressing need to find jobs right away. 

Still, after about six weeks of limited human contact other than Jon and his own care team, Martin had started to feel the insidious appeal of isolation again. _I think I need a job_ , he remembers saying. Jon had been a bit shocked, and a little put out. _How old were you when you started working, Jon? Because I was 14, and I don’t know any better ways to meet people I wouldn’t normally talk to._ They’d hit on a compromise: nothing too stressful, nothing too draining, nothing that made Martin feel like less of a person at the end of the day. And not full-time. And Martin would agree to get involved in something without, _fundamentally, a profit motive behind it_. He's been looking into writing workshops, just hasn't found the right fit, yet.

And so: some days, Martin makes a 15-minute walk to a local record shop. And other days, he makes a 20-minute walk to a bookstore on the next block over. He hasn’t worked more than 25 hours in a week since he started this, and he’s managed two days off in a row each week, too. It feels like leisure, and he likes most of his coworkers, and he likes meeting most of the customers, at least.

(Jon is merciless about _my boyfriend, the 33-year-old hipster_ , and Martin gives it back for _saying hipster in 2019 Jon, God_ , and neither of them complain about employee discounts on books and vinyls.) 

On this particular Saturday, Jon is meeting with a group of other LGBTQ+ survivors in the morning, and Martin doesn’t have anywhere to be until the afternoon. He’s experienced enough in the field of clandestine research to know when — and how — to take advantage of the window of opportunity that opens when he hears a voice call “I’m going” from the front door. “Love you!” 

He opens up a browser window and starts looking. 

***

Nearly three hours later Martin has 36 tabs open, countless ones closed, and his leg is asleep from sitting. He’s looking at three separate drag brunches (but all on the weekend, none on the fourteenth, and he realises he has no idea if either of them would actual _enjoy_ drag brunch); two different tattoo studios (but they’ve barely talked about that, and Jon seemed on the fence when they did); reading lamps and soft throw blankets and really expensive headphones (too impersonal, a bit boring); a beautiful board game with handmade wooden pieces (not bad, actually); and about six different lists of new and notable music and nonfiction releases. 

(He took a screenshot of the electric wine opener and serving kit that looks like a dildo by way of R2D2, and the suggestive silicone wine stoppers. That’ll be good for a laugh later, if everything else is a bust. After a glass of wine Jon’s sense of humour was as adolescent as anyone's.) 

None of these things are the right things, or the right ideas. He’s tried every reasonable search string and inspiration hasn’t struck. He keeps running into the same ten or so listicles all referencing and copying each other. 

He’s at the point of venting into the search bar when he hears the door open again, and sits up with a guilty start when Jon comes into the living room. He didn’t bother getting dressed or showering earlier, so he’s sitting in his boxers with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as the love of his life comes home from contributing to the community. He closes his laptop just as Jon raises an eyebrow (because of course he can raise just a single eyebrow, of course he can) and asks “all right, love?” 

Martin wrinkles his nose at him. “Yes, yeah, I was just doing some research. For a _poem_ ,” he continues, “so you can put that eyebrow to rest, thank you.” 

He stands up, hoping to lure Jon into the blanket with him. “Hello,” says the former antichrist, as he shoulders his way into Martin’s arms and brushes their noses together. “It’s cold out.” 

The tabs will keep, for a bit. 

***

_gay valentines_

_queer valentines ideas_

_mlm valentines day_

_lgbt valentines london_

_what to get my boyfriend for valentines day gay_

_valentines for men who are basically cats but not like that_

_cmon google help a guy out plesaeee augh_

*** 

Later, Martin has gone to and is back home from work. He's back in his open tabs, both hands on his phone while Jon’s on the other end of the sofa, periodically flexing his toes into Martin’s shin. “Don’t let me keep you from your research,” he says, and Martin starts when he hears the hint of hurt in Jon’s voice. 

“Sorry,” he says, and puts his phone face down on the coffee table, and takes Jon’s slim ankles in his hand. “Just preoccupied, I guess.” 

“I could be more obnoxious, if it would help?” 

“Well,” he replies, pressing his thumb into Jon’s instep. “Don’t put yourself out or anything.” 

(Later, he’ll close all the tabs while Jon’s brushing his teeth. He goes to bed loved and in love, and no closer to knowing what to do with it.) 

**10 Feb 2019**

“Hey,” he says, hanging up his bag on the hook and dropping his keys in the bowl. Jon comes to meet him at the door this evening. “Wanna hear something adorable and also really, really funny?” 

“I could be persuaded. Baby animal adorable?” 

“Sadly, not today, but you know I’m good for curating a selection of the internet’s finest kittens for you. No, no — I ran into Carol, Carol-and-Amy-Carol, on my way home, and I have to tell you what she told me about her Big Valentine's Plans.” He trusts that Jon can hear the uppercase letters.

Martin isn’t lying: he really did run into their middle-aged neighbour on his way home from the bookstore, and she really did tell him about some plans she’d made with her wife for next week. 

And the plans are, frankly, hilarious. 

“No, Jon, it’s — these women are what, fifty? Sixty? And she’s bought an eight-foot-tall teddy bear, and a crate of pink champagne, and she’s ordered _two dozen_ truffles from Amy’s favourite chocolatier, and roses, _and_ she told me she’s got something ‘sparkly’ on the way, too. It’s just so — so much, you know? And it’s all the classics! Sixty years old, what on earth are they going to do with a giant bear?” 

He finishes expectantly, waiting for Jon to say something acerbic but not too mean about the middle-aged and middle class. Jon’s face is doing something strange, instead, something curious and vulnerable. He’s facing Martin, but his head’s angled down and to the side, like he’s looking at his elbow instead of at Martin’s grinning face. _Shit._

“I — I think it’s a bit sweet, actually? I mean, not necessarily the form of it, but the thought. The intent. It’s nice to know that people are still trying, and, and” and here he sighs in a way that Martin has come to understand means he’s a bit embarrassed about what he’s going to say, but committed in a kind of 'New World, New You' way to keep going with it. “And still loving. You know?” 

There’s a half-second of silence before Martin reaches out to gently turn Jon’s face back upward. “Oh, Jon,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “Of course they are.” 

There will be time later to deal with the emotional one-two punch of that. For now, he needs to take a minute to thank his boyfriend for reminding him that it doesn’t have to look like _them_ for everyone else. 

(And consider how completely screwed he is, with Valentine’s four days out. He really needs a plan.)

**11 Feb 2019**

There’s a flyer folded neatly under Jon’s keys. Postcard-sized, and the design is a collage of vintage Valentine’s cards: a horse with a rainbow mane that looks faintly familiar; two feminine-looking people sitting by the sea; a boy on a throne with a speech bubble that says “You’re a QUEEN.” It’s for a dance, of all things, at a local venue. _Rainbow Retro: Back in Time for Valentines!_

“Huh,” Martin says to himself. “Okay.” It’s been a while, and he never did a ton of it, but he could dance, if Jon wanted to. He’s got a stack of the same flyers taking up space on the counter at the shop, but hadn’t given them any thought until now. Maybe this is the ticket. 

Over dinner that night he tells a bit of a lie, in the service of the greater good. 

“Oh, so — Naomi, from the coffee shop? They left fliers today to hand out, at the shop.” 

“Wait, was it bookstore day or record store day?” 

“Record store day, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Anyway, they asked if we — as in you and I — would think about going.” He pauses, and there’s no response, Jon politely waiting for more information. “It’s on Thursday, on the fourteenth, so I don’t think you’d have anything the next morning.” 

“Wait — is that that ‘Rainbow Retro’ thing? I saw one of those flyers, someone had them at my group.” 

“Yeah, that’s the one! So. Don’t suppose that’s something you’d be up for? Going to, I mean.” 

There’s another pause. “Going. To the Rainbow Retro Valentine’s Dance.” Jon’s making the face he reserves for people who say _irregardless:_ a microsecond of intense distaste, quickly reformed into something neutral as he remembers not to judge. “I mean, it hadn’t occurred to me, but...is that something _you’d_ like to go to?” 

“Ha! No, not particularly. But now I can pin the blame on you when Naomi asks me why we weren’t there.” 

Martin needs another plan. 

**12 Feb 2019**

With two days left to Valentine’s, Martin is open to drastic measures. He texts Georgie.

_MB: Hi! How’s it going? Had a good chat with Mel last week, I guess you’re looking forward to your show on Thursday night_

_GB: hey martin. What’s up?_

_MB: Okay, this is incredibly weird of me, probably, but do *you* have any ideas about what I should get Jon for Valentine’s? (omg i hate valentines day)_

Georgie Barker does not text back right away, which means that she’s probably moaning about him to Melanie, which means Melanie is going to give him shit next time he sees her. Perfect. 

_GB: sorry! Was recording!_

_MB: oh! Honestly no problem. Like I said, I know it’s weird_

_GB: Oh hon. It’s not so much that it’s *weird*, it’s that it’s been well over a decade since I’ve had to think about ‘Jon Sims’ and ‘Valentine’s Day’ in the same sentence. Honestly, he used to turn his nose up at it, in that pretentious undergrad way_

_MB: ohhhh_

_GB: anyway, you need to ask him what he might want, or enjoy. You *know* this already, it’s not like this is the most high-stakes thing you’ve ever had to communicate about_

_MB: Yeah, I know, I know. It’s just a bit embarrassing? ‘I love you and could and would do anything as long as we were together, but uh, do you like flowers?’_

_GB: lmao_

_GB: Honestly. You’ll be fine, I promise_

The thing is, he knows she’s right. He knows Jon isn’t going to leave him, or berate him, or love him any less if he fails to create the most magical Valentine’s Day of all time, three months after they thought that _time itself had been unbound from reason_ etcetera. He just doesn’t want him to be disappointed. 

Martin doesn’t know Georgie _that_ well, but she’s got no reason to lie. He can do this. He _will_ do this. 

(It doesn’t stop him from texting Basira to ask if Jon had mentioned anything he was interested in reading at any of their very serious and scholarly nerdy book chats.)

**13 Feb 2019**

Martin opens the bookstore today, which means he's done work by two in the afternoon. 

This leaves plenty of time for panic buying. 

Four-thirty finds him tired and a bit sweaty, sat with water and an actual coffee at a Costa not too far from home. He’s hiding out from his regular coffee shop, on the off chance that Jon might go in. He hasn’t walked for that long at a stretch since — well. _Since._ And while this was much, much nicer, he’s still glad to be off his feet while he takes stock of his own ridiculousness in a relatively anonymous setting. 

In the last two and half hours he’s done his damnedest to pull together the most Jon-targeted collection of gifts imaginable. He'd grabbed two books before even leaving the bookstore, and then walked the ten minutes to the record store for three albums that they’d both been keen to hear. But then, that was for both of them, wasn’t it? And the books Martin might get to reading at some point, even though they weren’t entirely his usual fare. 

So he’d walked a bit further afield to the tea seller that sold the dark, honey-scented tea Jon seemed so fond of these days. 

And to the stationery store, for a modestly-priced fountain pen with a converter and a bottle of rich, blue-black ink. Yes, Jon said he preferred typing to cursive, these days, but he had a lovely hand and should be encouraged to use it. Dying art, and all. And encouragement could happen by means of this beautiful pen, and these blank notebooks. (Jon was easily enthralled by textures, and heavy, creamy paper was among his favourites.) 

He'd had no intention of buying clothing for Jon, but there’s a joke shop with t-shirts made of the softest imaginable jersey, and then the upscale menswear store that Martin hates was advertising an end-of-winter clearance sale. He barely even registered the time between when he took a breath to steel himself for being out-of-place and when he’d thanked the clerk for the cashmere pullover folded neatly into a paper bag with a ribbon handle. 

There was a two-minute period where he stood outside of a jeweller's wondering, before he wrenched himself away. Not something to go for without talking about it. 

Eventually, hours have passed, and here he is, in a Costa, feet aching and him feeling a bit dizzy at the frenzy of consumerism he’s just come out of. Jesus, it’s good that neither of them had bought Christmas gifts, being too newly returned to the world to really believe that it would stick. 

He takes a minute to acknowledge that thought and the anxiety that comes with it, as well as with the fear of overspending. He really is here; he really gets to have this. They’re safe, and buying gifts for Jon doesn’t put them in any more mundane danger, either. He actually can afford this. They can have this, whatever this mess is. 

Anyway, he’s too tired and it’s too late and it would be too embarrassing for him to take any of it back, and besides, he’s supporting his local businesses. And Jon deserves the world — maybe this will do. 

(He’ll just find a way of getting it all in one box or something, so it looks a bit more coherent.)

*** 

Martin manages to get his bag into the closet and out of sight before Jon catches him at the door with a kiss. He must have winced a bit, because Jon steps back and is asking what’s the matter before Martin’s even got his coat off. 

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Honestly, I’m good! I just — went for a bit of a walk after work, and the weather’s warming up, and I just got a bit overheated. Feel a bit gross, to be completely honest. Do you mind if I grab a shower before I make dinner?” 

“I mind the fact that you think you need to make dinner when you’ve come home looking exactly like a man who needs to rest.” 

He’s only human; he melts. He needs a glass of water to dissolve whatever’s caught in his throat ( _the salt of being human_ , he thinks, and wonders if he could do anything with a line like that, later). His coat will wait while he tucks his face into the curve of Jon’s neck where it runs into his shoulder, and whispers “thanks.” 

The not-bad water pressure in the shower is still enough to knock him over. He knows he’s strong, and can be stronger, but there will always be a part of Martin Blackwood that is watery and weeping. His skin’s hot and too small on his body, the sloughing off of sweat stings in places, and the spray lances hot through the chill in his toes. 

His eyes are cast up, at the ceiling which is only a ceiling, and he breathes in and out slowly while he lets gratitude and grief run over. It feels like the first time his brain has been quiet all week, and when his shoulders finally relax he laughs to himself and scrubs his palm across his eyes. He’s in the shower, in his flat where he lives with his boyfriend — his partner — Jon. He is alive, really quite incredibly alive, and he has been driving himself to distraction for five days trying to come up with a perfect plan for _Valentine’s Day,_ of all the things that actually don’t matter at all. 

“Shit! Ow!” He’s dragged a bit of residual sweat directly into his eyes, of course, and that’s all it takes for things to solidify again. He turns the temperature of the water down, rinses off his face, scrubs himself off, and lets the coolness set him. 

He understands then that his ideal Valentine's Day would just be _more_. More time together, more time occupying space together and adjacent to each other. Just a little bit more, and only all the time. 

When he joins Jon in the kitchen he’s clean, and smiling as he wraps himself around the other man, Jon’s back to his front and — allegedly — takes the shell of his ear gently between his teeth. “You can’t prove it was me! You saw nothing, Sims!” 

Jon chortles at this. “See-Nothing Sims, that’s what they’ll call me. Thank _fucking_ God!” 

It’s the easiest thing, and the hardest-fought, for Martin to spin him around to face him; it's even easier still to let gravity pull him down the two inches to Jon’s mouth, to lick past his lips and into everything he already has. 

(They don’t eat supper until eleven at night. Sandwiches and bottled beer, both of them in pajamas, sitting on the floor like they’re years younger than their bodies might ask them to acknowledge. Jon hasn’t put a shirt on, and so what else is Martin to do but drag a cool line with his mouth up the middle of Jon’s torso, from navel to clavicle and back again? How else to have all the time in the world, if not to make it?) 

In time, they sleep. 

**14 Feb 2019**

On the morning of the first Valentine’s Day after the end of the end of the world, Martin wakes up suddenly and with intense wariness at a sound from the hallway. _Someone’s at the door_. 

He looks to his left and the bed’s empty. _Shit, shit, shit, Jon’s heard them first and gone alone, of course he bloody has —_

He’s halfway to the baseball bat they keep in the corner of the room and pretend not to notice before he realizes that it’s Jon he’s hearing from the front door, singing under his breath. He reminds himself that his life isn’t actually too good to be true and that he can leave the baseball bat and put on his glasses before going out to say good morning. 

Jon sounds surprisingly awake, for the late night they both had. He usually sleeps later than Martin, preferring to read a little longer at night and lie in a little longer in the mornings. But today he’s switching on the kettle and fishing out the actual teapot, humming something Martin remembers they listened to a few weeks ago. He’s pulled his hair up, and he’s wearing jeans and one of Martin’s jumpers, and the man he loves is making him tea and has brought home — 

“Morning. Are those flowers?” he asks, gesturing at what are obviously flowers. 

“Hmm, they might be. I know you like chrysanthemums, but they were hard to get in and a bit morbid,” and Martin resolves to google _that_ “so these probably aren’t your _favourite_ , strictly speaking, but I thought - flowers.” And then Jon’s passing him a vase full of sunrises, yellow and orange and pink and red. “Gerbera daisy. I, um, I hope you like them.” 

“Jon” Martin croaks. “Jon. I love them. They’re gorgeous, and I — sorry, no one’s ever bought me flowers before. I’m just. Wow.” 

The sun is spilling out of Martin’s hands, and through the window, and from Jon’s smile. He sighs, as if he’s relieved. “Good. Good. I’m glad, I am. I was afraid it was a bit, I don’t know, corny? Overplayed?” 

“They’re beautiful. Honestly.” He makes a show of looking around the corner into the living room. “Did you get me an eight-foot-tall teddy bear, too?” 

Jon barks a single, bright laugh, and pours the water for the tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for:  
> \- references to the apocalypse, and mentions of associated trauma and recovery, including telecounselling and group work  
> \- one reference to Martin feeling isolated (this is resolved by the time we get to the present of this fic)  
> \- research spirals and self-imposed pressure to be perfect  
> \- canon-typical Melanie and Jon attitudes about each other, and Jon makes a 'prophet' comment about Melanie (she's not present, and it's presented as throwaway snark)  
> \- Jon and Martin bicker and banter in ways that I believe are canon-typical, including affectionately calling each other 'awful'  
> \- In that context, Martin tells Jon not to be "a dick" about something  
> \- a reference to Martin's past financial insecurity and anxiety  
> \- crying in the shower (happy tears)  
> \- alcohol mentions


	2. Epilogue: Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the day, a few moments from Jon's point of view.

**14 Feb 2019 (later)**

They spend their first Valentine’s Day like this: 

Jon has proven himself at least equal to Martin in terms of cunning, and has arranged for him to have the day free from both of his jobs. “I cleared my schedule today, too, you know how much I enjoy the hustle and bustle” _oh, of the rat race?_ “Yes, of the rat race, Martin, you know how dedicated I am to it, so you have to see how important this quality time is to me.” Martin calls him awful and tells him he loves him and that’s all exactly as it should be. 

They eat pastry for breakfast and get hungry again mid-morning, because _pastry isn’t proper breakfast, Jon,_ and so they walk to the greasy spoon that will let Jon substitute veggie sausages for the meat and the staff don’t coo and fuss when they hold hands across the table. 

The sky is an unseasonable blue and the sun is unseasonably warm, but in the way that days just are sometimes, and have always been. It’s refreshingly non-ominous. They walk home the long way — _Jon I’m not sure it counts as ‘the long way’ if it involves this much actively going_ in the opposite direction _from our home_ — they enjoy the scenic route. 

In the afternoon Martin digs furtively into his satchel and presents Jon with a slightly flattened shopping bag containing a perfectly soft pullover, a packet of tea, and a book of Chaucer. _I thought this might be more your thing, in terms of poetry. It’s, ha, not really mine, but I’ve read it, the original and all, and it’s interesting and funny._

“Chaucer? Martin, this is perfect, really. I mean, it all is, isn’t it?” 

He would prefer to have never made Martin cry again, but at least it happened while they were both smiling, this time. _All I wanted, want, it’s just more time, Jon._

And they talk, and talk, and then Jon cries, too, and then they’re quiet, for a time. It happens, and they keep working on learning how to sit with it. 

Later still, they sit with the window open, half-frozen under a blanket, and Jon flips through the pages of his new Chaucer and reads. 

_Now welcome somer, with thy sonne softe,_  
_That hast this wintres wedres overshake,_  
_And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!_

_Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,_  
_Thus syngen smale foules for they sake:_  
_Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,_  
_That hast this wintrest wedres overhake._

_Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,_  
_Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make;_  
_Ful blissful mowe the synge when the wake:_  
_Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe_  
_That hast this wintres wedres overshake_  
_And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!_

__

__

“Oh is that what it’s meant to sound like, out loud? I obviously did not find the good YouTube tutorials.” Martin gets a sly look. “But, like I said, I can read it well enough. What’s that bit about ‘sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make,’ again?” 

__

Jon is a serious, formerly eldritch academic, which is why someone else must be covering his face with his hands and blushing. He’s jostled out of it by Martin’s shoulder. “I’m just teasing, Jon. For now, anyway, we’re here and I think we’ve chosen each other quite thoroughly at this point. Everything else is just, contracts and logistics, I guess.” 

__

“So you don’t want me to make an honest man of you?” 

__

“Impossible, probably. Let’s start with something more achievable, like saving the world.” 

__

There’s little that Jon loves as much as the feeling of taking Martin’s hand in his own. It hasn’t gotten old yet. Maybe someday it will; they will both get old, now. 

__

“Ah, that’s the first reference to St. Valentine’s Day in the English language, Martin, did you know that?” 

__

“I did not, Professor Sims. Did you?” 

__

“Ha. Not at all. I may have done some research of my own earlier this week? About...subjects. Matters. Topics.” He looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye just in time to see the man’s face break into a perfect, love-stricken smile. “You seemed so cynical about Valentine’s Day and I didn’t want to mess it up.” 

__

Martin is magnanimous and at _least_ as awful as Jon is, in his reply. “Honestly, Jon. You could have just asked.” 

__

__

(They open a bottle of wine with dinner, and another afterwards. He’s putting down the corkscrew when Martin shouts out _oh my God, Jon, I forgot to show you_ , and then somehow he’s looking at a screenshot of an _incredibly_ suggestive wine opener and what are claiming to be silicone bottle stoppers, and he laughs red wine out of his nose and spills it on to his new pullover and it’s all perfect, and fine, and perfectly fine. 

__

They’ll get the stain out, and if they don’t, there will be other gifts. They’ve got time.) 

__

  
  


__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional cw's for this chapter that I can think of. 
> 
> Jon is reading from Chaucer's _Parlement of Foules_ , in Middle English. The line Martin nudges Jon about can translate along the lines of 'and each [bird] a marriage with his mate does make," but also don't cite me in a paper or anything, I am _rusty_ at translating Middle English.
> 
> (Yes, I made Martin buy all those presents for Jon and then only give him three of them, what of it? He can save them for a rainy day. I'm given to understand there are a lot of those, in London.)


End file.
